


She Is The Only Thing You Ever See

by rideswraptors



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, If you don't like Dany that's your issue, Keep it to yourself, This is not Dany hate, previous Jon/Dany
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 03:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14035200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: Dany meets Sansa on their way to the Wall."But now he was in his home, his safe place, where nothing bad had ever happened to him. Here, in this place, he let his guard down far too often, and Daenerys noticed. She noticed the way he lingered at Sansa’s side, his reluctance to leave her alone. She noticed their closeness and could easily make comparisons between his treatment of her, Sansa, and Arya. There were glaring differences. He was cordial and congenial with Daenerys, of course, and he doted on Arya, but Sansa?"





	She Is The Only Thing You Ever See

**Author's Note:**

> I slipped and this came out. Why am I fixated on reunion fics? I don't know. It's a sickness.
> 
> Squint and spot the Shakespeare reference. I'll give you a cookie.

The party which stood waiting to greet them in front of the Great Keep of Winterfell seemed formal enough. The household stood in a line, and when she and Jon stepped down from their mounts, they all dipped to their knees. 

 

That was where the formality ended. A woman with bright red hair, twisted into intricate braids which wound around the crown of her head came forward. Her gown was black and silver, a heavy wool befitting a northern lady, but she wore a cloak identical to Jon’s, the same fur and straps and stitching. She went right to him, arms outstretched. And he went to  _ her _ . They met each other in a tight, familiar embrace, pulling back only to kiss each other’s cheeks. Dany couldn’t hear their conversation because they spoke in hushed whispers. The woman’s eyes seemed to roam over every part of his person, looking for wounds. Looking for burns. 

 

This was Sansa, Tyrion informed her, his former lady wife and Jon’s eldest sister. 

 

“She’s beautiful,” Dany offered evenly. 

 

“She’s more than that, your grace.” He left her side to make his hellos. But even then, Jon kept an arm around Sansa’s waist as she offered her hand to Tyrion with a warm smile. Dany bristled a little, not at all certain why. Then another woman, shorter and dressed in men’s clothing, came forward with a bright smile on her face. Behind her, a servant pushed a young man in a wheelchair. 

 

With one hand  _ still _ in Sansa’s, he reached out to hug this other woman. He dropped a kiss to the top of her head and she nuzzled against him like a pup, but they spoke loudly enough for others to hear. He turned his attention to the man in the chair. He shook his head and then bent forward to press their foreheads together. Dany could not hear that conversation, nor did she care to. All she could focus on was how Jon still held onto Sansa. When he righted himself, he pulled her arm through his, ultimately bringing her closer. She didn’t seem at all upset by it. He greeted the other members of the household with handshakes and quick hugs. 

 

All the while, Dany focused on the pair of them. How they moved together, spoke softly to one another, smile at each other. They seemed to  _ fit _ together. A burst of insanity bloomed in her chest, one that she’d not before experienced. She was the rightful Queen of Westeros, Khaleesi to the Dothraki, the Mother of Dragons. Her beauty was beyond compare. Never once in her life had she felt...jealous. Now the feeling seethed within her as she counted the seconds Jon ignored her in favor of Sansa. 

 

“Jon!” she called out, attempting to keep her voice cool and even. He turned on his heel, looking like he’d quite forgotten he was there, and ushered Sansa in her direction. The others followed. 

 

“Lady Stark,” he said coming to a stop, “this is Daenerys Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne.” He didn’t continue with her titles and she didn’t miss it. She lifted a brow at him only to receive an unfathomable, pointed look in return. “Your grace, I present my sister, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North.”

 

They each should have dipped into curtsies, but merely nodded at one another. Jon’s fond look at his sister did not escape her notice. 

 

“It is a pleasure, Lady Stark. My lord hand has told me a good deal about you, even if Lord Snow has not.”

 

Sansa huffed a laugh through her nose and shot an exasperated look at her brother. 

 

“Which is not surprising in the least,” she answered, teasing him. She turned back to Dany. “I have heard all sorts of things about you and your time in the East. I look forward to hearing the truth of it.”

 

“It’s mostly true,” Dany answered her sharply. Even if she felt ungenerous in that moment, but there wasn’t much she was going to do about it. Her business was with Jon after all. “Jon, my dragons?” 

 

“Right,” he said, looking vaguely annoyed. He’d asked her not to bring up the dragons immediately, as it would come as a shock to the Northmen. “We’ll need to set them down in the north field, and I’ll put a party together to go hunting.” 

 

Sansa surprised them by scowling, “ _ Honestly _ Jon, you can be so dense. We’ve been preparing for their arrival for weeks now. We’ve cleared land to the South, away from Wintertown and closer to the Wolfswood. Arya and the wolves have been hunting enough that we’ve replenished our stores, and the Free Folk have taught us some methods for winter gardening to teach the smallfolk, so her majesty’s dragons won’t beggar us for now.” 

 

Dany’s immediate reaction was pleased, but Jon looked startled and impressed. It was as if he hadn’t expected the Lady of a great castle to prepare for her queen’s arrival properly. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? There was something more happening between them which occurred so below the surface that Dany couldn’t touch it. She couldn’t touch it or lash out and accuse. Still, the exchange was so intense that everyone could feel its effects. 

 

“Come, your majesty,” Sansa said gently as she brought another woman forward. “Gilly will take you to your chambers and help you settle in. My steward will be by with a bath and food shortly.” Gilly led her forward and Dany’s retinue followed, but neither Jon nor Sansa did so. It irked her, but what was she supposed to say? She followed this Gilly woman into the Keep, but nearly jumped out of her skin when the howls of wolves overtook the wind. It was loud and startling and it made her skin pimple uncomfortably. 

 

The Starks, however, were grinning like fools.

 

“Seems Nymeria’s found Ghost,” Jon said, smiling wider than Dany had ever seen. Sansa grinned up at him, curling closer to his side. 

 

Arya Stark nodded, smiling, “The wolves are home again, and the pack is together.” 

 

The wolfsong reverberated in Dany’s ears, pounding and swirling around, completely impenetrable. There was no stopping it or softening it. It occurred to her right then, as she looked back at Jon standing amidst his siblings, still holding Sansa, that the outright ferocity of dragons was nothing compared to the perseverance of wolves. 

 

Gilly left her and her handmaidens in a comfortably furnished chamber, far warmer than she had expected from such a terribly cold place. There was plenty of food and a fire in the hearth. Dany immediately went to the window, which overlooked the courtyard. Tyrion came to stand beside her, hands clasped behind his back. 

 

“I’ve been at Winterfell once before, and I found the Starks to be the same,” he said in some vague agreement with a thought she hadn’t voiced. 

 

“What does that mean?” 

 

“It means, your grace, that they work as a unit. No head, no one unprotected. If you manage to get one of them alone, you will sorely regret it. After all, look at what happened to the Frays.” 

 

“How does that affect me?” she asked lowly. She had heard rumors of these Frays. They were accused of betraying Catlyn and Robb Stark, murdering them and his pregnant bride during a wedding dinner. Despicable. She’d been told the family itself had been murdered in their own Hall, with not a word or whisper as to the assassin. The rumor was that it was the ghost of Catlyn Stark. Another rumor was that it was Arya Stark, though no one seemed to be able to account for how. 

 

“When I was married to Sansa, she was alone in the world. She had no friends, no one to comfort her, not a thing to live for. Do you know what she spoke of? What she thought of and prayed for?” 

 

“No, but I suppose you’ll tell me.”

 

“Her family. Her lost sister. Her dead brothers. Her half-brother a world away. Her murdered parents. Alone in the world, abused and broken, and she was brought back to them. Sometimes I think it was from sheer force of will, the likes of which only you can imagine.” 

 

“What are you saying to me?” she snapped. 

 

“I am saying, your grace, that I will be the last person in Westeros to stand in the way of something that Sansa Stark wants.” 

 

She looked at him, sharp and stunned, a little bewildered by that statement. It was as if he’d crawled inside her head and pulled out the dark thoughts she hadn’t been able to control. Incest was a Targaryen tradition. Brothers married sisters all of the time. Viserys had blamed her for not being born soon enough to be Rhaegar’s wife. That had been her destiny, until the Usurpers changed everything. But, according to Jorah, Northerners didn’t do such things. They thought children from incest were tainted. They would think her blood was tainted. 

 

“You’re saying dangerous things again, Lord Hand.” 

 

“Hmmm, maybe, your grace, maybe. But I’ve found that the most dangerous things to say are the truest.” 

 

“And you think she wants Jon?” she asked quietly.

 

“I think she wants her pack to stay together.” He sniffed and rolled his shoulders disquietly. “And I shudder to think what lengths she would go to in order to make that happen.” 

 

“Jon has already bent the knee,” she snapped impatiently. There was nothing Sansa Stark could do to thwart her efforts now. 

 

“That he has, that he has. Yet, I wonder what price you will pay for that knee if he, in fact, means to hold to it.” 

 

“Speak plainly, Tyrion.” 

 

“You heard her, Daenerys, the pack is together again. And wolves hunt as a pack.”   

 

“You’re saying they want the throne.”

 

“No, I’m saying they want the North. A place you have no understanding of. Sansa not only knows how to play the game, but she knows the North and its people. She has the name and the following. She has Jon, who is their King. Sansa Stark is at her strongest here, and you are at your weakest. As your Hand, I advise you to keep to yourself and make no unwise commentary until we leave this place. Or else, you could find yourself in grave danger.” 

 

“I have dragons.”

 

“And wolves have little use for dragons. Remember what happened to your ancestors here. They flew South for a reason, and it was a good one.” 

 

“You’re telling me--”

 

“I am advising you to tread carefully and not to overplay your hand. If you want to take the South properly, you will need the Northmen. If we survive this thing, the North will be your strongest ally. Sansa Stark has the sympathies of Westeros. They’ve seen firsthand what my family did to hers. How do you imagine it will play out if they discover you’ve threatened her, or tried to take more from her in her own home?” 

 

“Politics,” she sneered.

 

“You’re in the Great Game now, Daenerys. I told you that when we left Mereen. If you want to survive, I suggest you heed my advice and be cautious when it comes to your dealings with Sansa Stark.” 

 

She sighed heavily. “Fine. Tell me everything I need to know about her. Starting with her journey South.” 

 

He huffed a small laugh. “She was sweet, then. Innocent. She was promised to my nephew Prince Joffrey, and they went South when her father was named Hand of the King to my brother-in-law after the murder of Jon Arryn by his wife, Lysa Tully, who was manipulated by Petyr Baelish.”

 

“Where is this Baelish now?”

 

“Judged by Brandon Stark. Sentenced by Sansa Stark. Executed by Arya Stark. Not long after Jon came to us at Dragonstone.”

 

“Without his permission?”

 

He smiled. “You haven’t been listening, your grace. Wolves hunt as a pack.” 

 

She cleared her throat and poured herself some wine. “How did she end up married to you?” 

 

“The game is cruel. My sister happens to be crueler.” 

 

“Tell me.” 

 

So he did.

 

*

 

Sansa watched Daenerys go into the Keep with some trepidation. Unwittingly, she squeezed Jon’s arm too tightly, gaining all of his attention. 

 

“Are you all right?” he asked her gently, bringing his free hand to her arm. 

 

“Did you do as we discussed?” was her response, eyes still locked on the queen’s retreating form. 

 

“Aye,” he said stiffly. “Not that I’m entirely happy about it.” 

 

“Don’t be a child, Jon.”

 

“I’m not. I just have no desire to be Queen’s Consort in some unknown country.” 

 

“She trusts your loyalty, that is enough for now. Besides, her presence here will bind us together against Cersei. She has seen you in action, there’s no reason for her to distrust your intentions.” 

 

“It feels dishonest.” 

 

She snapped her eyes to him sharply. “Where did your honesty get you at Castle Black? Where did it get Father in King’s Landing?” 

 

He sighed. “I know, which is why I’ve followed your advice. I only wonder what repercussions we will face if we survive this war.” 

 

She smiled at him sadly and lifted a hand to his cheek, stroking the softness of his beard. She’d missed him greatly, worried after him constantly. She hated that their reunion meant only more danger and less chance of their meeting again. 

 

“Win the war first. Kill your Night King and come back to me, and we’ll deal with whatever happens then.” 

 

*

 

He nodded and turned to kiss her palm. Arya then beckoned them to the Hall, where a meal was to be served. She raved to Jon about Wildling milk, about the fighting methods she’d learned from them. She wanted to spar with him, to show him what she’d learned. It was as if they were still children, and Arya was trying to prove herself. He had no idea where she had been all this time, what she had gotten up to, but she looked healthy and strong. Her eyes were sharp and intelligent, always watching. The world had hardened her, and he could see it, but he was grateful to whatever gods existed that it hadn’t destroyed her. 

 

Of Sansa’s condition, he was less certain. Arya had always been so emotive, so brutal in her own truth that no one need ask how she felt to ascertain it. With Sansa, you could hardly tell if she felt too cold, let alone what she was truly feeling. Yes, she had been warm in her greeting to Daenerys because of course, she would be. Daenerys had been less, encroaching on belligerent. Jon didn’t dare think on why. But in that moment with Sansa, he hardly cared to know. He wanted to know what Sansa thought of this Southron queen, of this woman she’d asked him to seduce in order to gain an ally. He’d waited until the last, hoping other methods would benefit him instead. They did not. Their sleeping together had solidified the alliance, and Jon was very concerned as to what would become of it. 

 

Sansa didn’t appear to be concerned in the least. Not when other people would be around to witness it. She saved her concerns for the dark corners, where she would whisper and worry and fret over things of which she had no control. She tried to control them. She tried very hard. But others were better, others were stronger. Or, that’s what she chose to believe. That’s what she wanted other people to believe. It was when the things she loved, the things she truly cared about, were threatened irrevocably that she tipped her hand, exposed herself for what she was. That was when she became most herself, a force of nature which could not be ignored. The Red Wolf was whispered about across the barren waste of the North. 

 

“We have much to discuss,” he told her quietly. She nodded at that too, but led him to the Hall anyway. There was a performance to be done, people to convince. And Jon knew he would not see the real Sansa for several hours. Not until the sun faded over the horizon and he brought her a flagon of ale. Not until they sat before a fire with Ghost at their side to speak quietly in the privacy of the Lord Father’s chambers. Jon had never taken to them, had never felt comfortable. Neither had Sansa. Both were playing characters on a stage they had never anticipated. 

 

In his head, all he could think were the words he’d wanted to say to her the day he’d left. Words he’d been too cowardly to string together. Something too strong and too dangerous to acknowledge, yet impossible to ignore. 

 

_ I love you, Sansa. Never forget. Never forget that I love you _ . 

 

*

 

She hadn’t wanted to like Daenerys, not in the least, but Sansa found herself doing so all the same. They weren’t all that different from each other. There was so much death and violence and struggle in their childhoods that they couldn’t be anything but guarded, jaded women grown. The simple fact that Jon had to  _ sleep with her _ in order to solidify their alliance should have told her everything she needed to know, but still...she liked her. Daenerys was sharp and tough-minded, she meant what she said and each word was carefully measured to deliver full impact. But there was nothing dishonest about her; her ambitions were plain and her goals measurable. She was no Cersei. So long as her sanity remained intact and she kept good counsel, Sansa presumed they would have nothing to fear from this Southron queen. 

 

Regardless how Sansa felt, Daenerys certainly hadn’t warmed to her, and it was not at all difficult to figure out why. Jon struggled to play the game, he struggled with any level of deception, though he saw the benefit of it. He’d taken her advice, followed her cues, and there was not much else she could ask of him. But now he was in his home, his safe place, where nothing bad had ever happened to him. Here, in this place, he let his guard down far too often, and Daenerys noticed. She noticed the way he lingered at Sansa’s side, his reluctance to leave her alone. She noticed their closeness and could easily make comparisons between his treatment of her, Sansa, and Arya. There were glaring differences. He was cordial and congenial with Daenerys, of course, and he doted on Arya, but Sansa?

 

It was different, and there was no denying that. It had been different for some time. He was as much a touchstone for her as she was for him. They relied upon each other, needed each other’s strengths. Jon was the only thing in the world that she truly trusted. And even now, he was going away. He was going to fight another war to save them all only to come back to fight someone else’s war. And what were the chances of one man surviving so many wars in one lifetime? How many people would die before the Iron Throne was gorged on enough blood to satiate the people of Westeros? She couldn’t stand to think of it. 

 

That’s how she found herself wandering the Keep late the night before the armies were set to leave for the Wall. She could no longer contain her anxiety. She couldn’t force herself to rest at this point. She paced the corridors until she came to the boys’ old rooms, a place she and Arya had often run to amidst the North’s vicious storms. There was an alcove just beyond the door, a deception in the wall which led most people to overlook it. In fact, there was an opening wide enough for two people to fit through. It opened to a circular room which jutted out slightly. There were three windows, giving a nearly panoramic view. When the rooms had been occupied, a guard had been stationed there, to protect the children. This merely gave him some privacy, and he could act as a lookout. But no one had occupied those rooms for some time. There was no reason to have someone there that night. 

 

She looked out the window, over the Wolfswood. It was seemingly calm and quiet, but she knew that not far away, dragons roamed. She’d tried to keep the direwolves within the Keep, but it was difficult. Nymeria was not accustomed to being restrained in any way. Being in the Godswood helped some, but it didn’t make it easier. They would be gone soon, she reminded herself, they would be gone but so would Jon, and everything in her head was muddled up by that simple fact. More than anything else, she wanted clarity. Simple clarity. Nothing in her life had been clear since her father had died. It had all been so simple, to her mind. But...but then, it really hadn’t been simple, had it? Nothing had ever been simple, she had just been too dim to see it. 

 

“What are you doing in here?” 

 

Sansa nearly leapt out of her skin. She startled so badly that she jumped and nearly screamed. But then there was a big hand on her arm, steadying her, and without thinking, she leaned into it. When she calmed down enough, she realized it was Jon and he was looking at her with no small amount of concern. 

 

“Gods, Jon, you frightened me,” she snapped, trying to compose herself.

 

“I can see that,” he said with a small laugh. “But you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing out here?” 

 

“I’m--I couldn’t sleep so I started walking...and I ended up here.”

 

He gave her a half smile and moved a little past her to lean against the wall, looking between her and the window. 

 

“No wonder. Just like old times.” 

 

She rolled her eyes, “Yeah, except we were usually piled up in Robb’s bed trying to ignore the wind, not fighting off insomnia.” 

 

“Well, most things have changed.”

 

“Most,” she agreed with a sad smile. They didn’t talk about how Rickon always insisted on being in the middle. They didn’t talk about how Robb had always been so annoyed with them. They didn’t talk about how Theon had laughed too much while they were trying to sleep. Thinking about any of that was just too much in that moment. Maybe because it was a late hour, maybe it was because the world felt like it was falling apart, or maybe it was something else altogether, but Sansa felt tears sting sharply at her eyes. She had no control over how they fell. No power to stop them. She looked down instead. “I don’t want you to go.” 

 

“I know,” he answered quietly. She let out a half-sob.

 

“You know?” She laughed, a little desperately, “You know. Of course, you know, because the last time you rode North our family was ripped apart and now it’s happening all over again.” She barely got those last words out before he was moving forward and wrapping her in a tight hug. Sansa sunk into it, nuzzling against his shoulder, and letting herself be comforted. Why did she always feel so safe with him? What gave him the right to make her feel this way? When he was gone, he was all she could think about. When he was here, she never resented anyone more. She hated how much he comforted and confused her at the same time. She hated that she could never think straight when it came to him. She hated that Daenerys made her feel so...unsteady. Sansa felt Jon’s lips press against her temple, felt him nuzzle his nose into her hair. 

 

“It’s the only way,” he whispered. 

 

“I know.” 

 

“If I could protect you here, I would. I wouldn’t leave you--”

 

“Jon, I know, I’m just--I’m so scared. All the time, I’m so scared. For you, for Bran, for Arya, for our people. It’s like everything we do, every step we take just leads to more madness, more chaos. And Littlefinger, he always said--he said--”

 

“Sansa, don’t--”

 

“Chaos is a ladder, Jon. I’ve watched people climb that ladder. I’ve seen what they will do to climb it. And I’m so afraid--you might win this war, just to come home to another one. And what if--what if--” She broke into sobs, all but collapsing against him. He held her up and let her cry. But only for a moment. Because he tipped her chin and kissed her. It was light and gentle, so unlike the kisses she’d received. Like everything else with Jon, it was meant to comfort and console. It was impulsive and confused, but still comforting. 

 

She expected him to pull back, pull away, remove himself from her space. Because Jon was good and noble and honest. And he was her  _ brother _ . Half-brother, a vicious voice in her head snarled. It sounded suspiciously like her mother. It made her half sick to think of it. Sick because maybe this made her like Cersei, maybe it made her sick and terrible like Cersei. But when Jon stayed still, pressed their foreheads together, she felt nothing but love and safety. Nothing but calm and contentment. 

 

“We can’t do this,” she whispered bitterly, fisting her hands in his shirt. “We can’t.” 

 

“I’m not asking you for anything.” 

 

“There’s no coming back from this.” 

 

“Sansa…” he inhaled slowly, “there’s no coming back from any of this. Not this war, not this life, certainly not us.” 

 

She wanted to stamp her foot like she was a child again, demanding her way. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair! What did we do? What did we ever do that was so bad?” 

 

He grabbed up her hands, forcing her to look at him. There were tears slipping down his cheeks, and he looked genuinely miserable. He was shaking his head inexplicably, like he didn’t have the right words. 

 

“Nothing, Sansa, we didn’t do anything wrong.” She nearly crumpled in front of him, but as always, he held her up. “Sansa...there’s something you don’t know. Something Bran, Sam, and Gilly know that they told me.” 

 

She shook her head, trying to catch up to what he was saying. “What?” 

 

“I’m not--Sansa, we’re not--” He winced. “My mother was Lyanna Stark,” he said firmly, “and my father Rhaegar Targaryen. I’m not your brother, and I never was.” 

 

She stared up at him in disbelief, but even in her stunned silence, the truth of it was so plain. She lifted her hand to his dark curls. No one had ever believed Ned Stark capable of adultery. Jon’s eyes were a deep and lovely gray, but a blue-gray. Maybe even violet in the right light. Her father had always been so resistant to speaking of Jon’s mother. No one knew who she was, not even their mother. He looked so much like her father. They said Aunt Lyanna looked like her brothers. His smile was so different from her father’s, though. His features were softer. She stroked his beard, closed her eyes against it when he turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand. As she let the information wash over her, let it settle in her stomach, she held him there. Just as her mother had always said, Jon wasn’t her brother. 

 

She brought her other hand up to his cheek, cupping his face. She wasn’t at all sure what to do, and he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to tell her. When had that ever been true for her? Not once in her memory, maybe not ever. Sansa wasn’t used to anyone handling her this gently. Men either gave her wide berth or abused her. She’d never known an in-between. Jon was definitely in between. 

 

So she leaned forward and kissed him again, just a light press of lips. She was completely unpracticed, and wasn’t sure what to do. But Jon took over from there. He pulled in her bottom lip, teasing it, lingering sweetly. Sansa couldn’t help but think over all the kisses she’d received, thinking how they’d all been terrible in some way. Jon was...Jon was perfect. His arms came around her waist, holding her comfortably against him, as he continued to layer kisses on her lips. 

 

“Jon, the chamber…” He smiled into it, but shook his head. 

 

“No,  _ Sansa _ ,  _ no _ .” 

 

“I don’t care what happens, but you are not leaving me before you have to, do you understand me?” 

 

He sighed and kissed her again, harder than before, with more intensity, like he couldn’t help himself. That felt familiar. 

 

“Fine,” he breathed out. “But just to sleep.” 

 

“I’m not--” 

 

He dropped his forehead to hers, “Please don’t argue with me. Please don’t. I have to be able to leave tomorrow. I couldn’t--I wouldn’t be able to--”

 

“Jon--”

 

“There are two wars ahead of us, Sansa. Two wars and whole lifetimes, and I need to know that you’re here, that you’re safe. I need to know that nothing can touch you. I can’t fight this war and do what I have to do if you’re in harm’s way.” 

 

She pressed another hard kiss to his lips. “I told you to stop trying to protect me. I don’t need it.” 

 

He let out a rueful laugh and shook his head. “Sansa, I am going to try to protect you until the last breath leaves my fucking body.” He shook his head again and shrugged, as if it were completely against his will. Maybe it was. She felt her heart clench tightly in her chest. No matter who his father was, Jon Snow was every inch Ned Stark. He was exactly the man her father had always wanted for her, exactly the man she had always wanted. And here she had found him, at the end of everything, the night before the beginning of the end of the world. 

 

“Come,” she said softly, taking his big hand in hers, “come with me.” She led him out of the alcove and down the corridor, back toward the lord’s chambers. Jon refused to have servants wait on him in the morning, didn’t like having another person dress him. No one would disturb them there. Sansa ushered him over to the bed, and left him there to extinguish the candles. He still hadn’t laid down when she returned to him, so she climbed onto the bed and made herself comfortable before reaching out to him. He went easily, moving over to kiss her thoroughly, opening her mouth with his tongue. It felt nice with him. It felt calm. She didn’t feel trapped. She felt safe and loved. She felt good. 

 

But then he pulled away, pulled away, but pulled her close, tucking her against his big body. Seven hells, he was warm. He was warm and solid, and Sansa wanted to stay in that moment forever. They couldn’t, and Sansa knew that, but as she let herself finally drift off to sleep, she knew she would do anything, fight bloody tooth and nail, to bring him back home. Daenerys could have the Iron Throne, she could have the Seven Kingdoms, but Sansa wanted Jon. 

 

The next morning when Sansa woke in Jon’s arms, it felt as natural as anything. He was already awake and watching her, hand playing with her hair. She snuggled in closer to him, trapping her hands between them and nuzzling against his chest. 

 

“Sleep all right?” he asked, voice still rough from sleepy disuse. 

 

She sniffed and nodded, “Mhmm. Best I have since Baelish.” 

 

“Don’t say his name.” 

 

She hummed and pressed up to kiss him lightly. “He’s dead.” 

 

“Good for him.” 

 

“Grumpy.” 

 

“Given the circumstances, I think I’m allowed.” 

 

“Ugh, don’t say it,” she grumbled, burrowing into the furs. “The sun isn’t up. It’s not morning yet.” 

 

“All right,” he followed her down into the furs, pressing kisses to her face, “I’ll stay here with you,” he kissed her cheek, “and the wights will come,” he kissed the bridge of her nose, “and the Night King will kill us and claim us,” he licked up the middle of her lips to the tip of her nose, then kissed her again, “and then we can march South with the rest of the undead to kill Cersei.” 

 

“No-oh-oh,” she laughed as he spoke, pushing him off her, yet unable to resist when he cupped her head to bring their lips together. She indulged for a moment longer than strictly necessary. “No, no,” she shoved him off, making him laugh and feign an injury. “I have to go to my chamber, and you need to prepare for you journey.” She valiantly attempted to get out of the bed, but Jon grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her back to him. They kissed lazily, their hands clutching tightly into the other’s clothes. Sansa quickly realized she needed to leave, to let go and leave him there. That feeling spilled over into their kiss, making it frantic and desperate. She could feel the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. 

 

“Come back to me,” she said against his lips, “promise me, you’ll come back.” 

 

“We can make no promises in Winter,” he quoted sadly with a shake of his head. “I can promise to try. I’ll do everything I can--I just--Sansa, I don’t know--”

 

She nodded, letting the tears slip, and leaned forward to kiss him again. But then she felt a sob lurch into her chest, so she ripped herself away, got herself up and out of the bed, and left for her chambers. 

 

She refused to look back. 

 

*

 

Before he left, Jon told Ghost to watch over Sansa. None of the guards would remain behind, not even Arya. They could spare no one. Nymeria and her wolves would ride with Arya, but Ghost would stay behind to protect the Starks in Winterfell. Bran came to the courtyard to bid them farewell. Sansa did not. But Jon and Arya didn’t need her to. When they mounted their horses, brother and sister turned back, looking directly at the window of Catlyn Stark’s solar. There she was, the Lady of Winterfell, looking somber and beautiful, hair undone and cloak heavy on her shoulders. 

 

Jon and Arya lifted their hands in unison. Sansa lifted hers back, almost as if to clutch something mid-air. Arya brought a hand to her lips and blew her a kiss, a little ridiculously. Jon smiled at that, glad that she and Sansa seemed to have mended what was broken between them. She rode off to catch up with Gendry. He would have been annoyed with it, except that the world was ending. There was no point in asking them to deny themselves. He watched her go for a moment and then reared his horse around to face Sansa’s direction fully. He leaned over his pommel, memorizing the sight of her there. That was one of the few things which bolstered him in his time in Dragonstone. He could only hope it would be enough to get him through the Long Night. 

 

She dropped her hand to her mouth, fingers resting on her lips. She made no other movement, no other gesture, but Jon could almost feel the warmth of her lips pressed against his. Too many eyes watched him now, and he was aware of it. So instead, he lifted his hand to his chest, placing it over his heart, willing her to remember that he’d promised. He’d promised. Starks kept their promises. 

 

Then he turned his horse, and rode out to the head of his troops, leading them onward into uncertainty and possible death.

 

*

 

It took a whole year for Jon Snow to return to Winterfell. The Night King and his army were defeated within a fortnight. The dragons, fire and ice, and fought ferociously, and the men were well armed with dragonglass from Gendry and his smiths. Thousands died. But then Jon had taken the head of the Night King, and Rhaegal burned his body to ash. He was lauded a hero, a true King of the North. 

 

The problem was subduing the Lannister and Tyrell armies, which were bolstered by men from the Stormlands, which was currently a snake without a head. Jon had talked Daenerys out of using the dragons against the populace. Because no matter the outcome, such force would never be forgiven. The Tarlys were an excellent example of that folly. Jaime Lannister openly admitted that he only rode North to support Jon. He cared very little for a queen no better than his sister. Dany seemed to take this information to heart. While it took much longer to defeat Cersei than anticipated, they still managed. Most of it was a siege on the Red Keep anyway, which was all but impenetrable even after the fall of King’s Landing. 

 

Dany had taken the opportunity to win the favor of the smallfolk, supplying them with food and repairs to their lodgings, giving her newest allies latitude to bring in food, materials, and luxuries, so long as nothing was taken into the Red Keep. Eventually, starving, Cersei’s remaining guards open the gates and surrendered, leaving Cersei exposed and alone, sitting on the Iron Throne as if nothing was the matter. 

 

For Tyrion and Jaime’s sake, Cersei’s life was spared. Instead, she was sent to Essos, to be imprisoned there. It was a foreign land where she knew no one, she had no gold, and she could do no harm.  

 

“My mercy extends only as far as the sea. You have been spared to honor your brothers, both of which are heroes of the Long Night, responsible for the protection of this realm. You have disgraced your name, your house, and this kingdom with your treachery, your deceit, and your unrelenting cruelty in the name of power. I’ll not suffer your presence in Westeros ever again. Should you leave Essos to return here, you will suffer the fate my dragons bestow on you, through tooth, claw, or fire.”

 

“When do I--?”

 

“Immediately. You’ll take nothing but what you wear now. Guards.” 

 

No one was sorry to see her go. Jon wasn’t certain if he was impressed or skeptical of her plan. It was the merciful choice, but Cersei Lannister was dangerous on her kindest days. Sansa would have a good many thoughts on this decision, and Jon couldn’t help but anticipate her ranting. 

 

Unfortunately, Daenerys also decided that he and his retinue needed to remain behind in King’s Landing even though they sent his army home. She thought it would bolster morale if the Hero of the Long Night, the Prince Who Was Promised, remained in order to support her claim to the Throne. So for two turns, he stayed. For two turns, he wrote constantly to Sansa. For two turns, Daenerys attempted to convince him to stay, to marry her, to been Queen’s Consort. But Jon grew restless and agitated. The South was far too warm, far too closed in. He felt like a wolf caged in a hunter’s trap, waiting for his fate to be decided. Arya had long since returned home, Sansa all but begged him. There came a day when he’d had enough of waiting, of playing politics to soothe Dany’s insecurities. There was nothing for him in King’s Landing, and he didn’t want the Stormlands. So he went to her in her chambers, entering without permission. She stood at the window, looking out over the water. 

 

“I’m leaving,” he told her firmly. “I’m going home.” 

 

“I know,” she said without turning around. “I thought some time here might change your mind--”

 

“I belong in Winterfell. That’s my home. My family is there.” 

 

“ _ She _ is there,” Dany corrected, finally turning to look at him. She leveled him with an unimpressed stare, one that she used on so many lords and politicians and warriors. It had little effect on Jon; people had pointed worse expressions in his direction. 

 

“I refuse to dignify that with a response.” 

 

“Don’t deny it,” she snapped. “Don’t stand there and pretend she isn’t all you have thought of since we rode for the Wall.” 

 

He gave her a rueful, half smile, and shook his head. “Dany, Sansa is all I have thought about since she found me at Castle Black. Even if she were my half-sister instead of my cousin, I would go back to her. It has nothing to do with you. My responsibility first and foremost is to her.” 

 

“You love her.” 

 

“More than anything.” 

 

“The South will be poorer without you.” 

 

He offered her a true smile. “The South now has a queen with a good heart and hope for the future. I say it’s plenty rich.” 

 

“Safe travels, Lord Snow.” 

 

He nodded, “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.” 

 

“I pray they come before our children’s lifetimes.” 

 

“I’ll help you make sure of that.” 

 

So he left. With Gendry, Davos, and Tormund at his side, he rode for home. Their pace was fast and they took little rest. Davos, Gendry, and Tormund were just as eager to make it North. Davos was the fretting type, and was concerned for Sansa’s welfare. Tormund was crawling out of his skin; he despised the South and longed to sleep on a bed of ice. Jon thought him mad, but couldn’t disagree. Gendry thought only of Arya. 

 

It took them a whole turn to reach Winterfell. Once it was in his sights, Jon pushed his horse harder than he’d ever pushed. The watchmen must have seen him because the Keep’s horns reverberated over the moors. He looked up to see the gates being drawn up, the men on the battlements and the watchtowers raised up cheers, saluting their king. Because no matter who sat on the Iron Throne, no matter who ruled South of the Neck, there was no king but the King in the North whose name was Stark. 

 

He rode through the gate and into the bailey, riding hard, so hard that he had to pull his mount to a hard stop on his hind legs. The horse reared up, screeching in protest as he pranced around in circles to lose steam. Jon quickly dismounted, pulling at the horse’s reins to steady him, to soothe him, and pass the reins off to the stablemaster. He realized Tormund, Gendry, and Davos were still pretty far behind him, but he didn’t wait. Jon turned, eyes searching out the window, but finding nothing there. 

 

“Jon!” 

 

At the sound of her voice, his head tipped back and he closed his eyes, letting it calm him. He didn’t linger in the feeling though, he turned in the direction, to see her coming fast down the stairs from the parapets. Jon took long strides across the bailey to meet her. They all but crashed together, arms so tight around each other that neither could breathe properly. They pressed kisses to each other’s cheeks, nuzzling together. Jon had such a firm grip on her that he lifted her from her feet, but eventually he set her back down, aware of their audience. Instead, he dropped his forehead to hers when she reached to cup his face. 

 

“You came home,” she whispered, voice raspy and thick with tears. He nodded.

 

“I promised you, didn’t I?” 

 

She let out a half-sob, half-laugh, and put her arms back around him, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. He held her close, stroking the tips of her hair and back as she calmed down. Arya was not far behind Sansa, pushing Bran in his chair, Ghost at their side. He pressed a kiss to Sansa’s temple, threaded her arm through his, and went over to greet them. Gendry, Tormund, and Davos quickly joined them, gaining all of Arya’s attention. She ditched Jon to fling herself at the Baratheon, leaping up and hanging around his thick neck like a monkey. Gendry caught her with ease, held her carefully, and responded enthusiastically to her kiss. 

 

Jon let out a heavy sigh, disgruntled, at the sight. It drew Sansa’s attention, making her cover a laugh by dipping her head into his shoulder. 

 

“What?” he asked, amused. She turned her face up to him, smiling and her eyes bright. 

 

“Arya is a woman grown, and she’s chosen Gendry. Do you think she will appreciate your interference?” 

 

Jon gaped incredulously. “I had no intention of interfering!” Sansa scoffed derisively. “I’m telling the truth!” That made her laugh outright.

 

Beside them, Bran hummed thoughtfully. “It would be ill-advised, at any rate,” he told them evenly. “Arya is with child, and Gendry is the father.” 

 

Both Jon and Sansa were torn between excitement and exasperation. They turned their attention back to the couple, who were still kissing furiously in the middle of the bailey. Davos and Tormund had edged their way around the pair of them, putting some distance between them as they walked over to Jon. 

 

“Well, what do you think? Will he speak of her more or less now?” 

 

“More,” both Jon and Tormund intoned, shooting each other amused glances. Jon looked at Sansa. “He was insufferable on the road.” 

 

Tormund scoffed, “Like you were any better.” 

 

“Watch your tongue, Tormund,” he snapped dryly. The Wilding held his hands up in overexaggerated defeat and a smirk on his lips.

 

“Whatever you say, King Crow.” 

 

“Don’t be an arse. Go get cleaned up, get something to eat.” Both Davos and Tormund nodded to him and bowed to Sansa. Bran asked to be taken along to the Hall where food was waiting for them, wanting to speak with them both about their travels. Before Jon could get a word out, Arya was brushing past them with Gendry in tow, snapping at him about eating and taking care of himself, and it wouldn’t have killed him to bathe. Gendry looked absolutely annoyed and rolled his eyes, but his expression was so fond that people couldn’t help but smile to see it. Sansa tugged at Jon’s cloak, gaining his attention.

 

“Are you hungry?” she asked gently. But he shook his head. 

 

“Just tired.” 

 

“Come, then,” she said, pulling him in the direction of the Keep. “Let’s get you cleaned up and in bed.” 

 

She took him to the Lord’s chambers, which looked as if they’d been well used in his absence. She casually mentioned that she had been sleeping there since he left, and that Arya was making use of the Lady’s chambers. The thought made him smile, but he didn’t comment. She stood him in front of the fire, carefully removing his cloak and outer clothing. She undid the straps with ease, of course, because she had made them. She removed his belt, his tunic, and then urged him to sit in an overstuffed chair to remove his boots and his thick wool stockings. Then she got up and went to a small cart which held a basin of water, cloth, and soap. She brought it over. She washed his face and neck, his arms and hands, his knees, legs, and finally his feet. Jon knew Catlyn Stark had done this for her husband whenever he came home from a long journey. He wondered if it was something women taught their daughters, or if it had been something special between her parents. He thought it was most likely the latter. Westerosi women seemed to care very little for the husbands their fathers chose for them. Jon submitted to all of this, silently, not pretending to be unaffected by her gentle treatment of him. 

 

When she was finished, she tugged at his hand and led him to the bed, letting him lie down so she could cover him with furs. He snagged her wrist before she could get too far away.

 

“Stay?” 

 

She smiled at him, eyes soft, “I’m not the one who keeps leaving.”

 

“Sansa--” he groaned pathetically. She laughed at him and bent to press a kiss to his forehead. 

 

“Sleep, Jon, I’m not going anywhere.” 

 

*

 

When he woke, the room was quite dark, except for the flames in the hearth. The winds howled outside, but all he could hear in his chamber was Sansa’s low hum of  _ The Night that Ended _ . It was Bran’s favorite song, and Sansa had always agreed to sing it for him. It was funny what you remembered at the end of it. When everything was done. Bran’s favorite song was  _ The Night that Ended _ and Sansa still sang it. 

 

She sat before the fire, in the overstuffed chair her father had favored, stitching and humming. It was such a pretty sight, her there in his rooms. Jon had never even pictured something so lovely in his own head. Maybe he had, but in the face of Sansa Stark, he quite forgot them all. He felt warm and safe there, two things he hadn’t truly felt in a long time. He hadn’t felt safe for years, not since he’d left Winterfell. Now, he was home again, with people who loved him. There were no more threats to their home, no more wars to be fought, nothing but the long stretch of Summer ahead. 

 

“I know you’re awake,” Sansa said gently from where she sat, still attentive to her stitching. Jon tossed his hands up and sunk back into the bed.

 

“How could you possibly know that?” 

 

She chuckled lightly, “It’s quiet. I could hear your breathing change.” He watched her hand pause thoughtfully midair. “And you snore.”

 

“I do not!” 

 

“Do so. I’ve been sat here listening to it for several hours now.”

 

“Sam would have said.”

 

She outright laughed at that, going so far as to turn in her seat to smile at him. “No he would not. Sam adores you. I’d have to cut off his fingers and toes to get him to say one ill word about you.” 

 

Jon dropped his head to the pillow. “Sure, sure, never says a nice word to me, but sure.” 

 

“Now you’re pouting,” Sansa teased, setting her stitching aside. 

 

“Pouting and starving.” 

 

“I did tell you to eat earlier.”

 

“You asked.” 

 

She rolled her eyes as she stood, which was so familiar he ached for it. “My asking is the same thing as telling. Just ask Arya.” 

 

“Wouldn’t that be telling her?” 

 

She walked over and swatted at him before going to the table and bringing a tray of food over to him. It was warm, surprisingly, and he stared up at her in confusion. Sansa rolled her eyes again and clambered onto the bed without disturbing the tray. 

 

“You’ve been riding on horseback for weeks. You’ve probably eaten very little, and I imagine it was mostly Davos doing the cooking. You decided to sleep first, and I knew you wouldn’t sleep long, so I had food brought in. There’s nothing so mysterious about that.” 

 

He eyed her warily, taking up the utensils anyway and picking at the meat. “You’re scary.”

 

“Eat,” she said curtly, making herself more comfortable on the bed. While he ate, she peppered him with questions about King’s Landing, about what and who he’d seen there. She wanted to know his thoughts about every nook and cranny of the place, if he’d been down to visit the dragon skulls, if he’d gone out to the godswood, if he’d gotten lost in the Keep like she had. She asked a hundred questions about Daenerys’ plans for everything, if she intended to rebuild the Sept or not. He was surprised when she didn’t mention Cersei, but he decided not to push that point. Cersei Lannister had long been the monster in Sansa’s nightmares, the antagonist of her every waking hour. Perhaps some distance and reassurance would change that. 

 

They must have talked for hours. He had long set aside the tray, and now they laid pressed against each other, still talking. He’d long since stopped talking about King’s Landing. He wanted no more of the South. He told her about the North instead, about everything that had happened. He’d related some of it in his letters, but had kept them purposely vague. There was no telling who would read a raven sent to the Lady of Winterfell. He hadn’t wanted to cause a stir. But he told her now. He told her how Viserion had become a wight and fought in terrible aerial battles with his brothers. He told her how long it had taken him to fight his way to the Night King. He told her he’d never felt more powerful in his life than when he took the demon’s head, and how all that power drained from him the moment it was over. 

 

“Part of me thinks I’ve filled my purpose. I was brought back to stop an undead wraith from ruining the world. And I’ve done it. A Targaryen sits on the throne now. A Stark girl is going to marry a Baratheon. It’s as if the wrongs of the past have been righted, and the only ill-fitting piece...is me.” 

 

Sansa rolled so they were face to face, bodies aligned. His hand immediately went to the curve of her waist, even as hers went to stroke his beard. She looked at him thoughtfully for several, long moments, seeming to weigh her words instead of blurting out an instant dismissal. She was so different from the Sansa he’d known, so careful with everyone and everything. 

 

“I don’t believe we have a purpose,” she whispered. He tried to argue, but she stopped his words with a tap of her finger against his lips. “If we do...there can’t possibly be just one. And who decides such things? The gods? It would be like saying Father’s only purpose in this life was to protect you from Robert. Yes, he did do that, but think of everything else he did. Think of everyone he moved and touched and loved. I think the gods try to move us to the right place at the opportune moment.” She shook her head, and shrugged. “You could have walked away a hundred times over. You had every opportunity, but you kept moving forward.” 

 

“I almost went South after they brought me back.”

 

“Yet Brienne found Theon and me in the woods, just escaped from Ramsay, and she brought me to you. Even then, you could have left. Some might have said you didn’t owe me anything. You could have walked away and you didn’t. The choices we make decide our purpose, not any god or spell or demon.” 

 

He smiled, pulling her closer, rubbing their noses together.

 

“So what do I do now?” 

 

She huffed a laugh through her nose, grinning, because of course, she’d caught on.

 

“What do  _ we _ do now?” she asked, following the script. “ _ We  _ rule the North. Together. You and me, Bran and Arya.”

 

“And Gendry,” he reminded her cheekily. She rolled her eyes.

 

“I suppose.”

 

“I will do absolutely anything you ask if you manage to get her into a gown for the wedding.” 

 

Sansa scoffed, “I’m more likely to get Nymeria in a gown first.” He snorted and they laughed together until their sides ached too much to continue. Jon slid an arm under her neck so that she was cushioned on his shoulder. Sansa took it one farther and curled into his side, blanketing half of him with her slender form, resting her cheek on his chest. He stroked her shoulder absent-mindedly.

 

“How about I do anything you ask anyway?” he offered quietly. 

 

“That would certainly be a change.” 

 

“I do try.”

 

“Occasionally. When it behooves you.” 

 

“Behooves me? Need I remind you--?”

 

“Please don’t.” 

 

“Fine. But note for the record that I did win this conversation.”

 

She yawned, “So noted.” 

 

Jon bristled, his hand pausing in its caressing. “When’s the last time you slept?” 

 

“Mmm,” she answered, nuzzling against his chest, “I don’t know, a day or two?” 

 

“Sansa--”

 

“Don’t be cross,” she groused, “there was much to do.”

 

“Nothing is so important that you need work yourself to death.” 

 

She sighed. “I didn’t want to miss you.”

 

“What?”

 

“We hadn’t heard from you since you left Greywater Watch. I wasn’t certain when you would arrive, and I didn’t want to miss it because of sleep.” 

 

He tilted her chin up so she would look at him. “Sansa, if I ever need be away long enough that I have to return, I promise I will always immediately come find you and wake you, no matter how tired you are.” 

 

She smiled and leaned up for a kiss. “Thank you.” 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
